


Hate, Love & The Steps Between

by mamey2422



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamey2422/pseuds/mamey2422
Summary: The imaginary dance Beth and Rio have been doing with each other since the day they met continues in the angst of S3 so far.They’ve forgotten their steps in this dance they started, faltering in the river of blood between them, in the debris of the burned bridges they’ll never be able to cross again. They grasp desperately for their footing but she’s frustrated and scared and he’s vengeful and hurt. Still, neither of them of let go. Stubbornly, the dance between them continues.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Hate, Love & The Steps Between

They’ve forgotten their steps in this dance they started, faltering in the river of blood between them, in the debris of the burned bridges they’ll never be able to cross again. They grasp desperately for their footing but she’s frustrated and scared and he’s vengeful and hurt. Still, neither of them of let go. Stubbornly, the dance between them continues. Their steps are careful and calculated now, heavy and weighted with the past. It wasn’t so long ago when things were so different. When they danced around each other for weeks and weeks, building to something special and powerful. But that’s all been gutted, eviscerated by the violent vibrations of three gunshots.

Money is the music that fills the air between them, a soft humming of paper and printers and cutters and blenders. But gone is the gracefulness of their unspoken tango when their movements had been natural and light. Instead, now, they are fighting each other. Battling the determined demons and confusing contradictions that define them. A tender gang leader. A criminal housewife. They are fierce opponents, bouncing on their toes, fists up, constantly in motion, avoiding body blows left and right, up and down. It’s exhausting. But a little thrilling too. Though neither of them will admit that. 

Neither will they admit to certain reactions, the invisible ones, the imperceptible signs that they are more than just work to each other despite their proclamations. A skip of a heart beat, sometimes a pounding in their chest, a stomach fluttering with butterflies, small escaped sighs, a stir of arousal shooting over their skin settling low in their bodies. Instead they scramble for balance, say the appropriate neutral words, school their expressions into indifference as to not reveal even a sliver of hesitation or vulnerability.

His hands work different now, no longer relaxed and free, constantly twitching, clenching, holding a gun to her. The weapon is a permanent extension of his body, a frequent reminder of his power, of what is on the line in any given moment, of the delicate balance between life and death. Sometimes he holds the muzzle so close she thinks she can taste tinges of oil and iron. She remembers the smell of sulphur when a gun had been in her own hands, when she had pulled the trigger three times. Her hands shook then and they shake often now as she adjusts to his aggression, demands, intimidation. But she’s fast on her feet, good at improvising, knows how to get some basic steps and take them further than anyone expects.

There are no more soft grazes of her shoulder, or hidden touches under a table, or brushes of stray hair. She is no longer rewarded with his small smiles of pride. He no longer seeks her out, or cares about seeing that sparkle in her big blue eyes, or welcomes her ideas or challenges. He no longer imagines her hands exploring his bare skin. They double down on their resistance to each other, focus on their anger. Subtlety, in the slight narrowing of their eyes, in menacing laughs. In obvious ways too, raised voices and loud arguments. Angry tones and expressions reserved especially for each other. They rely on physical distance to create the barrier they furiously claim to need. When they walk, he no longer matches his step to hers. She keeps her arms crossed as if creating armor. She avoids direct eye contact as much as possible as if his gaze would turn her to stone. They have to, they must. Because they are enemies now and what is the point of a dance if you don’t follow the steps. Because neither is so sure hate is what they feel anymore, or ever had. Because still they are irresistible to each other. 

Where there should have been connection and movement, there was incredible tension, each of them vying to be leader, neither willing to be the follower. There’s too much pressure, no time to think, to understand the signals of where they stand with each other. There are ever so brief, rare reprieves. Sometimes he allows himself to breath her in, the unique citrus of her shampoo. Sometimes he raises an eyebrow or bites his lip in a certain way that is the opposite of mean and she files it away to savor it later. Sometimes their eyes catch and they freeze, realizing their momentary slip up, their misstep into their memories. Into that bathroom, her bedroom, that morning at her picnic table. They look away, make a hasty retreat back to the present before the electricity in the air crackles into something uncontrollable like it had before.

They are swirling into darkness, deep and untethered. But still they need each other. Still their feelings are stronger than ever. And that’s how they know they are in trouble. So much trouble. This dance they are doing is better with a partner. They are stronger together than apart, even if they don’t realize it yet, even if they stand tenuously together. They are magnets, drawn to each other. They are mirrors, reflecting back the best parts of each other so both of them are whole. Without each other, they are doomed to be just a little bit incomplete, off rhythm, unable to fully breathe in.

They don’t understand the true meaning of their dance anymore, the choreography falling apart around them. Focus and trust is lost and muddled as each of them tries to control the timing and speed of things, tries to outdo and outpace the other. They can’t always hear the music, blood and anger drowning it out, threatening to suffocate them. But they are each other’s lifelines, both of them survivors, always able to regain their footing even if at the last second. Even if they don’t realize they’ve already made the the biggest step of all. They’ve already fallen for each other. 


End file.
